Time to Let Go

by Christoph Fischer

  Walter took his drink to the back room to watch the repeat game and sat down on one of the few seats that were still available. Next to him was a group of four young lads, their eyes glued to the huge screen as Manchester United faced Liverpool in the Premier League season from several years back. He was not interested in either team as such but he favoured Liverpool out of the two of them, and he vaguely remembered the infamous outcome of the game. It would be interesting to see how it all had unfolded, he thought. The boys on his table were also Liverpool supporters and were getting rather agitated as the game proceeded.

  “I saw that game live,” one of them told Walter.

  The guy couldn’t have been older than 20 but he spoke with an implied expertise of many more years. More geeky than athletic he sported a beer belly, despite his tall and lanky build, and a reddened face that implied heavy drinking. What had become of Britain’s youth, Walter wondered.

  “I have not been to a game for years. The prices they charge for a ticket nowadays has put me off,” Walter replied.

  “You can say that again,” his new friend continued. “Do you know about this game? It is going to give me a stomach ulcer.”

  “If you are worried about an ulcer maybe the beer is the first thing you should cut out?” Walter said with a wink.

  “Yeah. That’s not going to happen. Listen mate, which team do you support?”

  “Arsenal.”

  “Cool. They play good football and Wenger has a great long term strategy of training up new talent.”

  “It is just a shame that there is no British player in the club any more. They are nothing more than a French team based in England,” Walter complained.

  “I don’t care so much where the players are from as long as they’re good,” came the reply.

  “You kind of have to support him in that case. Chelsea is just a plastic team bought with a lot of dodgy oil money. There is no soul or continuity in the team which is why the coaches come and go like buses.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard about your ABC rule: Anyone but Chelsea. Same for us. We have ABM. Anyone but Manchester United.” The guy laughed. “My name is Alex by the way.”

  “I’m Walter. Nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands.

  “If you’re an Arsenal fan then what are you doing in here, tonight of all nights? They’re not playing until tomorrow. Can’t be this game surely?” Alex asked, pointing at the screen.

  “Yes, it is not that game. I just fancied a night out of the house,” Walter told him. “My daughter and my wife are watching Mamma Mia tonight.”

  “Oh God! No wonder you escaped. I had to see that cheesy shite at the cinema with the girlfriend and then again when the DVD came out. Like we have not heard those songs often enough as it is,” Alex moaned.

  “Well, I’m glad the two of them have something to do together. My wife has Alzheimer’s and there is not a lot of exciting stuff you can do with her now.”

  “Ouch. That’s nasty,” Alex said and took a big swig from his beer. “Mind you, I wouldn’t mind a little Alzheimer’s right now. Would be nice to erase that stupid game from my memory,” the young guy said.

  “If only you could choose and pick.”

  “It’s kind of interesting though, if you think about it. I wonder what it’s like inside her head,” Alex continued.

  “I can tell you that right now. My wife was very unhappy when she realised her memory was playing up,” Walter explained. “She got frustrated and angry, she panicked about everything.”

  “Yeah, I get all that,” said Alex dismissively. “But I mean, like, what’s it like when a thought comes to your mind, let’s say about eating. Does she still think ‘I need to eat’ or ‘that’s Bertie’, or is it just images and feelings in her head? That’s really fascinating that is.”

  Walter shook his head in disbelief. He was speechless.

  “I have a mate who was in a coma for a week and after he came round he was still a bit doolally,” Alex continued. “He told us that during the entire time he noticed everything around him. He could tell us what doctors had said and who had come to visit him. Only, he had experienced it like a dream or a fantasy. He thought he was on a cruise liner and was travelling as a king, or some kind of important celebrity. He thought the doctor was the captain and the nurses were the waitresses. Maybe your wife also has a fantasy or dream-world like that to make sense of everything around her,” Alex wondered.

  “I hope so,” Walter said with a sigh. “I like the idea of Biddy having that kind of cushioning. I hope so much that she is happy. It is so hard to know for sure but she seems happy.”

  Alex didn’t respond but looked to the screen where the legendary controversial red card was dealt that decided the game for Manchester United. The other lads at the table started to shout angrily at the screen. Alex argued with them over the fairness of the referee’s decision and retold his own memories of that night at Anfield; Walter found it quite amusing. He had not seen the game himself but vaguely remembered the outcome. He did not want to see the end either. He said goodbye to Alex and his mates and left the bar. The night was cold but he decided to take a stroll around town.

  The streets were full with young people, most of them already drunk and seriously under-dressed for the freezing nightly temperatures. Since the smokers were all on the streets in front of the bars and restaurants, the air was unpleasant as well, and the trashy screaming and giggles everywhere reminded him that he was simply far too old for all this and he made his way back to the car.

  As he turned around the next corner he saw an ambulance parked in the middle of the road and two paramedics trying to wake up some youngster who was bleeding and looked like he had thrown up over himself. Walter wondered whether he would be like this too if he was a young man growing up in this decade. Had his children ever been like this, had they ever drunk that much?

  He felt gloom for the future of the country if its youth was behaving so stupidly and outrageously, until he suddenly remembered that his own parents had said the same things about his generation when they were young. Walter had been caught drinking by his father more than once and he remembered how disgusted Biddy’s mother had been at some of her daughter’s ‘revealing’ dresses, which in comparison to what Walter was seeing right now, had been rather prudish choices. Had he turned into his parents, or was the new generation really taking things to an ultimate limit?

  One of the phrases that he heard frequently, and which upset him, was the boasting of “I was so drunk, I can’t remember a thing.” If the youngsters of this generation were seeing this as an achievement then they should go trade places with his wife. Youth is wasted on the young. Never had this rung more true to him than right now as he saw the young man’s body fighting the imbibed poison and struggling to survive.

  Walter felt sorry for the paramedics who had to deal with all this trash on the streets. Maybe one of them was the mystery man his daughter was dating, or not dating.

  He got into the car and started his drive home. There were several police cars on one of the main roads out of town. Officers were signalling some of the drivers to pull over for random breath tests. Walter was one of the selected ones and had to blow into a little machine. He passed with flying colours, but the policeman looked at the licence for a long time.

  “How do you find driving these days?” he asked Walter.

  “Just like I always have,” Walter replied indignantly. He did not like this young man’s tone.

  “I am just wondering because you will have to renew your licence soon. We pulled you over because you were a little unsteady in your lane. Is your eye sight still good? Have you had it tested recently?” the policeman continued.

  “Yes, thank you. All is still fine. I won’t be having problems at the renewal. From what I have seen in town you will have your hands full with drunk drivers tonight, I am not sure you are well advised to waste your time checking up on experienced drivers like myself. I was driving before
you were born,” Walter snapped.

  The policeman remained unperturbed by the implied sarcasm and said gently.

  “Of course sir. I am sure that someone with your sense of responsibility can appreciate that we also need to protect the roads from incompetent drivers. Statistically speaking a lot of people your age are no longer capable of being in charge of a vehicle in a way that ensures satisfactory road safety. That is no personal reflection on anyone in particular. We are also clamping down on people who speak on mobile phones or who are trying to read road maps while driving.”

  Walter felt furious, but he knew he could not disagree. At the same time he did not want to lose face, or let the man get away with feeling smug and superior.

  “I just can’t see what I have done wrong in my driving,” he simply said, holding himself together.

  The policeman smirked. “I am so glad you asked. In the short time we were watching you, your tires crossed the white line at least twice, for more than half of its width. As you were not changing lanes this is highly worrying because if you drift lanes you could easily cause an accident. We use driving behaviour like this as an indicator as to who might be inebriated. A different possibility, of course, would be that the wheels need to be looked at,” the policeman added.

  Walter was feeling the rage building up inside of him; it was against his own better judgement but he couldn’t help it. The officer was being very professional and argued logically with him, but somehow the flood gates had opened and long built up frustration and anger finally found a vent and Walter exploded.

  “You are only checking my car because I am a senior citizen,” he shouted. “That is age discrimination. Shame on you for accusing me of poor driving skills and wasting your time with nonsense like this! It is our money that pays your wages, you should think about that before you treat us like we are there to serve you.”

  The policeman quickly looked at the licence, took a moment to compose himself, and then said with a stern voice:

  “Mr. Korhonen. From where we stood when we picked your car for inspection we could not have seen what the person in charge of any approaching vehicle looked like and certainly not how old they were. It is dark and your lights are effectively blinding us. There was no discrimination involved other than by appearance of the person’s driving skills. Please lower your voice and calm down or we will have to reprimand you for assaulting an officer,” he warned.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Assaulting a police officer because I am pointing out some errors of judgement?” he shouted even louder. “What has become of this country, can you tell me that?”

  “I am telling you to stay calm,” the officer repeated calmly while other police officers started to watch the scene unfolding more closely.

  Walter’s rage took complete hold and he kicked his car tyres and slammed his fist on the bonnet. “Bugger calm down!”

  “Mr Korhonen, please restrain yourself!” the officer warned him, but Walter had had enough and let out an angry scream. “For heaven’s sake!”

  The policeman opened his book and started to write.

  “Mr. Korhonen, I am warning you for the last time.”

  “What are you going to do? Arrest me for speaking my mind? I have blown in your stupid breathalyser, I listened to your patronising speech and you want more? What is wrong with you?”

  “That’s it, Mr Korhonen. No way am I going to let you carry on like this. You have been driving recklessly and dangerously. I will book you for that and confiscate your licence. You can come to the police station tomorrow and pay the fine. You will leave the car parked here and make your way home by other means. You are lucky that I am not booking you for disorderly conduct and resistance to an officer of the law.”

  Walter stood motionless for a second as the news hit him, then the rage welled up again.

  “I hope you feel proud of yourself!” Walter hissed at the man. “Arresting a law abiding citizen because of his age and in the meantime you let young drunkards terrorise the roads. Well done.”

  There was more writing into the notebook but no reply. A different officer took over from here. “I advise you to be very quiet now,” the policeman said, taking the car keys from Walter’s hand. He got into Walter’s car and parked it properly in a small layby.

  Walter refused the offer of a lift home and decided to walk. His rage gradually gave way to embarrassment. Why had he let himself go in that way, when he knew that such a tactic never went down well with policemen? There was no arguing with them ever. He should have just sucked up to them and he would have been home by now: with his licence, his car and his dignity.

  The thought of having to explain the missing car to Hanna in the morning was anything but pleasant.

  Fortunately, when he finally got back home the two women had both already retreated to their rooms for the night. After a few chapters of the Civil War book he called it a night as well and went to bed.

  Chapter 14: Sunday

  The next morning the alarm went off, again late and halfway through the headlines. It was not like Walter to have forgotten to fix the old radio. He had meant to do that yesterday. What was happening to him? Without disturbing his wife he got up and went to the bathroom.

  He had slept poorly, reliving the anger from the encounter with the police, and the shame of it.

  Sunday was the one day a week he let Biddy sleep until she woke up by naturally. In her life before Alzheimer’s disease she had always enjoyed a slightly altered routine and he saw no reason why he should not keep that regular irregularity. Hanna was already awake, or at least he could hear her music.

  After lengthy consideration he decided to ring his son Henrik before everyone else got up, so nobody could hear all the humiliating details of last night. Henrik’s discretion and confidentiality were reliable enough and, being used to shift work at the hotels, he was available for calls at all times.

  “I am sure this is no big thing,” Henrik assured him calmly once he heard the story. “I am actually not too far from you at the moment. I was half thinking of coming to see you anyway while Hanna is still there. I’ll get in the car now and I will see you in about an hour. I can come to the police station with you and explain that you are under stress because of mother and that you are very sorry, blah blah blah. Trust me; we can sort this out before lunch time.”

  “Thank you,” said a very relieved Walter.

  His son had such an air of authority about him, Walter felt surprisingly comforted by it. Now all he had to do was to make sure Hanna did not see him coming back in the car that was supposedly parked inside the garage. Or, he could just tell them that he had been drinking yesterday and responsibly left the car near the pub. But he was a bad liar and Hanna might offer to drop him off where he allegedly had left it. He wished Henrik was here already to take care of it.

  “How was your evening out?” Hanna asked when she came down for breakfast. She put the kettle on and started putting out plates for the family.

  “Fine. Just fine,” Walter replied. He backed into the corner to get out of her way. “Would you like some toast?” he offered, with excessive sincerity.

  “No thanks, I’ll stick to my cereal,” Hanna replied, starting to take things out of the fridge and put them onto the table.

  “Of course, how silly of me.”

  “Where did you go last night?” Hanna asked without looking up from her business.

  “A sports pub in the centre, I can’t remember the name. I watched an old game that was quite controversial at the time. It was fun.”

  “Are you sure?” Hanna asked. “You don’t sound very happy.”

  “Yes, I am sure,” he said, backing physically and psychologically more into the corner. “I am just tired.”

  She looked quickly at him with raised eyebrows and then sat down at the table, mixing yoghurt, fruit and cereal in a bowl.

  “I better go upstairs and check that your mother is alright,” he said and quickly dashed out of the room, but he
was back within a minute.

  “Your mother is still sound asleep. What did you do to tire her out?”

  “I did nothing at all, Dad. You saw what we did: we watched a film and then she fell asleep.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Jesus, what’s the matter with you? Yes, I am quite sure that is all I did. Doesn’t she usually sleep until you wake her up?”

  “Not this long.”

  “Go wake her up then. She didn’t stay up very late so you won’t do her any harm.”

  Walter shot her an angry look and left the kitchen. He retreated into his reading chair in the living room with the Civil War book and left her to her own devices.

  Biddy finally stirred and Walter ran upstairs to assist her in her morning routine. It was almost nine o’clock and this was late by his standards but most houses around them were still without lights.

  The extra sleep had done little to help his wife and her sense of orientation, and she had a dreadful morning. She headed for the shower then something around the sink took her attention, and she went back and forth until Walter man-handled her into the shower.

  “Come on now, Biddy. The water is warm now, don’t waste it by messing about,” he insisted.

  “But I need to…” she started.

  “No, you need not,” he said abruptly. “Be nice now and get into the shower.”

  Her body shrugged at the tone and obediently she went into the shower.

  Afterwards she went to the sink and started to brush her teeth but then she suddenly put the brush down on top of the dirty laundry basket and stared out of the window. Walter rushed to grab the tooth brush.